


watch the day break through the night

by escherzo



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, E176-178 AU, F/M, Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam Lives, Happy Ending, Resurrection Rituals, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “Why are you here, Grizzop?” she asks, kicking her feet like he's doing. Her boots, in the other world, were scuffed, beat up things with frayed laces, no matter how much money they got as a group. “New ones don't feel right,” she'd always say, looking down at them with a soft, sad smile. Here, they are the same boots, but they look perfectly new. Unblemished. Like the day she'd gotten them.Grizzop takes a deep breath. “I'm here to ask you to come back to the world with me."(or: Last Words, but with Grizzop leading Sasha back to the world)
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Sasha Racket
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40
Collections: When In Rome Secret Santa 2020





	watch the day break through the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Desilite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desilite/gifts).



> hope you have a lovely holiday, coign ♥

“I've got her,” Grizzop says, and everyone nods. 

He's seen grand rituals. This one is quieter than anything the Temple of Artemis has done, and his focus slips in and out—the sand around him, the strange, acrid smell of the incense, but his eyes keep drawing to Sasha. Sasha, cold and still, her face peaceful and smoothed of all its worry-lines. Of the wonky patch of white in her hair and uneven eyebrows and the burn on her cheek and her hands that are so still at her sides. He reaches down and cradles her head in both hands. 

“I've got you,” Grizzop whispers, and then he closes his eyes and goes still. Lets himself sink into the way the incense wraps itself around the room. The feel of the sand beneath his knees. In, out. He steadies his breathing and tries to think of nothing but Sasha. 

And slowly, so slowly, the world fades away, little pieces at a time. First the ambient sounds of the room around him, then the distant murmurs outside, then even the breathing of Azu and Zolf and Cel and Skraak at his side, until it is only darkness and his own slow, steady rise of breath. His eyes stay shut. The world around him shifts, so slowly he could nearly miss it--ever so faintly colder, but the cold of a crisp autumn's day, and the ground underneath him is harder. The hands that held Sasha are empty, and he reaches down and finds only brittle, smooth metal. 

He opens his eyes. He's in a dark corridor with a heavy steel door at the end, padlocked and chained, but with all of the locks hanging open. She's been through here, then. 

Somehow, moving forward is easier when his eyes are closed. He knows, on some deep and instinctual level, that she is ahead of him; he can feel something call to him, a faint, whispery tug of his heart. 

“Sasha?” he calls, pulling the heavy door open, and then he looks into the room ahead of him and aches with it. The room is enormous, a mess of ladders and perches and chains to swing from, with little pockmarks of tunnels dotted into the walls where someone could get a good perch and look down at everything. There are a thousand different colors of lights hanging from the walls and weaving around the chains, little rainbow glass baubles, and in one of the tunnels, he can see a glint of gold. Secret and hidden away. He has never seen Other London. Sasha described it to him once, late at night as they laid back to back keeping watch, only the knowledge that it was her body pressed against his keeping him from drifting off to sleep. It didn't sound quite like this, but the spirit of it is here. A mess of determination against a world that does not want it to exist, poking up shoots of metal and chain like seedlings towards the sky it could not see. 

“Sasha!” he calls again, clambering up a ladder to one of the perches to look down, and from behind him, tucked away in the shadows, a soft, fond voice says, “Alright, Grizzop.” 

She looks younger here, but only a little. Her cloak is wrapped around her, hiding the armor, and he can see a brief glinting flash of metal as she moves; her daggers are on her too. They kept one of her daggers on her when they brought her to the place for resurrection, but only one; Grizzop had insisted. It's _right_ to see her like this, her eyes warm, a blade in the dark with a world full of exploration ahead of her. This is not the hunting grounds of Artemis, at least not like the stories he has heard, but something about it calls to him too. Something animal in him that wants to keep secret and safe, clambering up until nothing can hurt anymore. 

“Wotcher,” he says, and gestures her over with a nod of his head. He sits at the edge of the tunnel, his feet swinging over the drop, and she settles down beside him with the strange catlike grace she has always had. He is sure, on some level he cannot explain, that she is unable to fall here, and even if she did, she would simply grab one of the crisscrossing chains and swing her way to somewhere new. “I—came to find you.” 

“To find me?” she asks, looking over at him. She recognizes him, that much is clear, but there's something in her eyes that seems _confused_ , more than anything. “I'm where I need to be.” 

“No, you're not,” he says, and takes a deep breath to steel himself. “Sasha. Do you know where you are?” 

“Dunno,” she says, and flips a knife up into the air and catches it, so quickly all he can see is a flash of metal. “S'proper nice, though. Reminds me of Other London, but peaceful.” 

“Look. You--” the words catch in his throat and he has to swallow hard against them. “You died. When the airship crashed. I tried to save you, and I _couldn't_ , and you died.” 

“Makes sense,” she says quietly, and there's a bit of flat humor in her tone. “That you'd try. You shouldn't have.”

“Of _course_ I should have.” He looks at her, really, properly looks at her, the best of his pack, and remembers trying to reach out and take the damage for her, running entirely on blind instinct and knowing, with a bone-deep certainty, that letting her go would be _wrong_. He'd wanted to do it more than he had ever wanted to do anything. A proper paladin's sacrifice. He'd been _hurt_ , but. Just hurt. It hadn't been enough. He hadn't done it right. 

“Why are you here, Grizzop?” she asks, kicking her feet like he's doing. Her boots, in the other world, were scuffed, beat up things with frayed laces, no matter how much money they got as a group. “New ones don't feel right,” she'd always say, looking down at them with a soft, sad smile. Here, they are the same boots, but they look perfectly new. Unblemished. Like the day she'd gotten them. 

Grizzop takes a deep breath. “I'm here to ask you to come back to the world with me. With—all of us. We still have a _job_ to do. We still have a world to save. Remember?” 

“Don't really need me for that though, do you,” she says, flipping her knife again. “You'll be fine. There's Zolf, even if he's still grumpy all the time, and Hamid, and Azu, and Cel, and... you don't need me.”

“We brought you back once,” he says, gritting his teeth. “We brought you back once, because it was the right thing to do, and it's _still_ the right thing to do.” 

It surprises him, on some level, how much he believes that. There's a natural order to things. Death isn't the end, but people don't get brought _back_. Not like this, at least. She'll have a good afterlife, and that's what he wants for her more than anything, but—not like this. Not yet. It's not her time yet. 

It's not fair that he should get to live if she can't. 

“Death isn't the end,” she says softly, not looking at him. “Told Hamid that once. Told him about where his sister was and how lovely it was going to be. And d'you know what? Here's alright.”

“Look,” he says, and she cuts him off. 

“You tried to die for me.” 

“Course I did.” Of course he did. What good is the world, if it's a world without her? He wants to squeeze as much life as possible out of the time he has, but. It's not right, it's not _fair_ , to have to do that alone. 

“Don't want you to have to do that again,” she says, quieter. “I don't _want_ that, Grizzop. I don't.” 

“Tough,” he says, and reaches out to put a hand on her arm, and for a moment she tenses, but his hand remains, and she slowly relaxes into it. “Look. The world's not—it's not _fixed_. We still need you, alright? You're not done yet.” 

She shakes her head. “The—the mission, right? It goes on without me. You're still going to Svalbard, aren't you? Even if I stay? I'm _tired_ , Grizzop. I've been half dead, undead, blown up, punched by dog ghosts, blown up again, chased by a cult, I've got a scar from being _cut open by a weird ceiling monster thing._ Couple of months ago, I thought I'd got a month to live. I've never been supposed to _last_. Same as you. But... think this place is safe enough. Might even find some of the others here if I look hard enough.” She laughs a little. “A little heaven for us gutter kids. Long as whatever Mr. Ceiling did didn't take that from Brock.” 

“I...” Grizzop's eyes are beading with angry tears, and he squeezes them shut, trying to fight against it. This isn't about him. Not really. “I would do it again. Probably will. In... in a hundred lifetimes, there's no time where I don't pick saving you over not doing it, alright?” He looks over to her, his hand squeezing her shoulder harder, and finally, finally she faces him, and it's so hard to get the words out. The lump in his throat rises and he swallows furiously, trying to tamp it down. “Look. I don't have a lot of time. Never have. But there's no point to the time I do got if it's _not with you._ It's not about the job. Not really. S'about _you_.” He puts every bit of will he has into it. Every scrap of conviction he has ever gathered in his life, trying to _push_ until she understands. “D'you get that?” 

She's silent for a long moment. “... Yeah,” she says finally, and then looks away, out towards the vast expanse before her. She plucks a stone from the tunnel floor beside her and chucks it towards one of the lights, and it hits dead-on, a bright little rainbow of color shattering and dropping to the ground all at once. “D'you... want to stay for a little bit? Bet you could shoot down three of those in one go.” 

“If I get three, will you come back with me?” 

“Gotta make you work for it a little, right?” she says, and when she grins, it's all teeth, short and sharp. “Tell you what.” She reaches under her cloak and pulls out another dagger and tosses it up into the air, testing its weight. “I get more of 'em than you, I get your bow when we get back to the world.” 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and completely forgets to bet anything against her, completely lost in the way she's grinning, her whole face alight. “You're on.” 

*

He wins, but only by a hair, and when he reaches out a hand for her to lead her home, she takes it, her palm warm in his, her fingers tucked carefully between his claws. Her eyes are still alight with mischief—there was no one down there to notice the lights dropping, but they made noises like there was, fake shopkeepers crying out in alarm and cursing up at them. He'd shattered two with the rapid _thwip_ of a well-placed arrow and she'd countered with a dagger cutting a whole string down, and from there it had been a mad rush of splintering lights and chaos and jostling about whose turn it was, how many they'd gotten, who could make the bigger crash. Grizzop focuses on his hand in hers now, on the warmth in it, and keeps his eyes forward. His job here isn't done. Not yet. 

_Thank you_ , he thinks, closing his eyes and putting a hand over his breastplate. _Thank you for letting me keep her again._

*

He comes back to the world slowly, the noises of the temple like distant music growing closer, until all at once he opens his eyes and he's back, Sasha's head still cradled in his hands. Her hair has gone shock-white, like it's spread from the spot where the color was missing outwards, and he stares down at her, his heart in his throat, watching for movement. A slight twitch. An intake of breath. For a long, agonizing moment, there's nothing, and then her chest rises. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes brimming with tears again, and he leans down to lay a soft kiss on her forehead. “Thank you.” 

She doesn't wake. From behind him, he can hear the gentle instruction to let her rest, to let her come out of it naturally, and he takes a long, deep breath and blows it out, trying to sap some of the nervousness that is singing through him. Somewhere off to his side, Azu is shaking Carter awake, oblivious to the instruction. He tries not to listen to the words. They're not for him. He doesn't understand everything about this ritual, but what he does understand, on a deep and fundamental level, is that everyone's journey was _private_. Azu's was no different in that respect. He focuses on the slow, gentle rise and fall of Sasha's chest instead of her words, lulled half into a trance by the steady motion. She'll wake up. She's breathing. She'll wake up, and she's _alive_ , and it doesn't matter how long it will take. He can wait. He has limited time, but he can wait for this. 

It does take a long time. The pyre is constructed and burnt to ashes and he is still there, curled around Sasha's quietly sleeping form, one arm slung protectively over her waist, as though someone will be coming to try to steal her away again. _She's alive_ , he keeps repeating to himself like a mantra. She's alive. 

The sparks fly up into the sky, little pieces of blinding brightness crisscrossing through the darkness up to the stars, and he holds Sasha tighter, the slow rhythm of her heartbeat keeping time to the soft song Zolf is singing under his breath as he watches. Grizzop can't place it; it's something quiet and melancholy, an old folk tune that he has heard once or twice before but never learned. 

“Alright?” he asks, and Zolf looks down at Wilde's slowly sleeping form and half-smiles on reflex, and he nods. 

*

He keeps vigil by her bedside, later, in the bunkhouse. Curled up into a ball, his back pressed against the door, bow in hand, listening for any sound of trouble. She's vulnerable like this, and every part of him thrums with the rightness of his watch. She still looks so peaceful like this when he allows himself to look at her properly. All of her scars have faded; he has never seen her without them. The burn is gone. The nick under her eyebrow that she once said she “didn't have a great story for, really”. The crisscross of fine lines across her forearms. He's never seen her like this, and all at once, he is hit by the weight of just how _young_ she really is. The same age as him in relative years, or close, and with a long life ahead of her. One she'll get to have now. She's always looked so much older with the scars. 

He hopes she remembers, when she wakes.

*

Awareness comes slowly at first. Sasha's eyes twitch, and then her mouth, and she inhales sharply and then squints up at the ceiling, her eyes starting to adjust to the dark, and Grizzop fumbles in his pack for a lighter to get the bedside lamp lit, breaking out of his crouch in a burst of motion. She sighs, a long, contented thing, and stretches, all of her muscles newly reformed into something that has never taken the kind of damage she's carried every day without complaint, and then she looks over towards the light. Towards him. 

“Hey,” he says, as quietly as he can. “How're you feeling?”

She takes a moment to yawn, considering it. “Been worse. What happened?”

For a moment, he considers easing her into it, but. It's Sasha. She wouldn't want the easy truth that's half a lie; she never has. “You died. When the airship crashed. I got you back.” 

“Course you did,” she says, and her eyes are alight with something he can't quite read. It's quiet and fond, and she pats the bed beside her. He settles down onto it, his bow and his pack left forgotten in front of the door, and she reaches out to rest a hand on his arm. “Figured you'd find a way. Was it bad?”

“Yeah,” he says, and tries not to think about it any further. The absolute stillness of her. The gash that snaked up from her abdomen to her ear, red and raw and not healing. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Glad you're back.” 

“Nice to be alive, yeah,” she says, and he's not sure if she remembers his words, but there is a peace to her that he's never quite seen before. Something _settled_ in her. She's always had something a bit manic under her skin, and right now, he can't seem to see it. “Feels--” She looks down at herself, at her unscarred arms, and her eyes widen. 

“Yeah, your scars're gone,” he says, grinning down at her. “Fresh start.” 

“I _liked_ some of those,” she says. “They were—they're good reminders, you know? Hard lessons and all that. I mean, some of 'em I won't be sad to see go, wasn't a lot of fun walking around with a falcon imprinted on your back, but--”

“You get time to get new ones,” he says, resting a hand on her arm, his claws digging in just enough to leave the suggestion of a mark if not a real one. “D'you—remember anything?” He swallows. Thinks of the words he said. If she doesn't remember, he's not sure he's brave enough to say them again. To her face, at least. 

She takes a long moment to think about it, her brow furrowing. Her eyebrows match now; she's no longer missing a chunk of them. “Not... exactly,” she says haltingly. “I remember how it felt. What it meant. Not really the rest. Was it nice there?”

“Yeah,” he says, shifting a little closer to her, and tells her about it. About the huge room full of ladders to climb, and chains to swing on, and nooks to tuck in. The lights that they shattered out to pretend they were causing trouble. The echoing emptiness of it all. “Rather have you here though. You--” He swallows. Tries to summon his courage. It's _important_. At least, to him. She deserves to know at least. “I've not got a lot of time, right,” he says, and she nods, slowly, like sleep is still half-overtaking her. 

“Told you I didn't want to have that time at all if it wasn't with you,” he finishes, looking away from her, and she reaches out and rests a hand at his waist, her fingers hot against his skin, and his eyes go wide. 

“Alright,” she says, and her voice is as fond as he's ever heard it. He turns to face her, and he doesn't _mean_ to kiss her, but she's smiling at him, and she's _alive_ , and all at once those two things become the central point of his universe and he can do nothing else. For a long moment, she doesn't kiss back, and his heart is in his throat, choking out any words of apology he could try, and then she runs a hand up from his side to the back of his neck to draw him in deeper. 

“So,” she says, looking terribly shy as she pulls back. “Don't think I've ever properly figured out how to like, love somebody. But I figure you're the closest I've ever gotten.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes widening, but she doesn't laugh, or play it off, or push him away, just keeps looking at him with eyes so dark he could drown in them, and when she pulls him in again, he goes all at once, his lips meeting hers, relishing the sting of the bite when she takes his lip between her teeth. The spark of pain that means they're _alive_. _Me too_ , he doesn't say, but he will, as soon as he can get his breath back. All he can feel, all he can smell, is her, and he has never wanted to stay somewhere so badly in his life. 

Maybe they're both still living on borrowed time. But they're going to do that together. 

He'll make sure of it.


End file.
